May 24 Weekend at puffincove
A quiet Sunday read from the cove
May 24 weekend always feels like the first little crack in the door to summer.
Not wide open yet.
Not warm enough to trust.
But open just enough for people to look outside and say, “We might get at it now.”
Around Newfoundland, cabins start waking up again. Campers come out of yards. A few boats get checked over. Someone finds the old kettle, someone else is looking for the frying pan, and there is always one thing missing that was put away safe last fall.
That is how summer starts here.
Not perfect.
Just started.
At puffincove, we like that.
The wind might still have teeth in it. The ground might still be soft. There might be fog sitting out past the headland like it owns the place. But somewhere, a door is open that was closed all winter.
And that is enough.
May 24 weekend is not just about going away. It is about going back.
Back to the cabin.
Back to the camper.
Back to the little stove.
Back to a table that knows more stories than anyone sitting around it.
And on a quiet Sunday, there is a good chance a pot is already on.
Salt meat.
Potatoes.
Turnip.
Carrots.
Cabbage.
Maybe pease pudding tucked in there too, doing what pease pudding does — sitting quiet and making the meal feel complete.
That is Jiggs dinner.
Plain food, maybe.
But never empty food.
It is the kind of meal that fills the room before it fills the plate. The steam comes up, the windows fog a little, and for a second, you are not just where you are now. You are back somewhere else too.
Nan’s kitchen.
A cabin in the woods.
A camper with the door half open.
A crowd around a table that was never quite big enough.
That is the magic of it.
Then someone brings out the roast meat. The gravy gets made. The dressing shows up.
And now we are not fooling around anymore.
That is when Jiggs dinner turns into Jiggs supper.
Around here, supper has weight to it.
Supper means people are staying.
Supper means sit down.
Supper means the day can slow itself for a while.
May 24 weekend is like that.
It is not summer in a rush. It is summer clearing its throat.
A chair dragged outside.
A kettle boiled twice.
A camper light glowing in the evening.
A cabin door swinging open after a long winter.
And a pot on the stove, reminding everyone that home is not always one place.
Sometimes home is a smell.
Sometimes it is steam on a window.
Sometimes it is someone lifting a lid and saying,
“Come on now. She’s ready.”
At puffincove, that is enough for us.
A quiet Sunday.
A long weekend.
A little warmth coming back.
And a plate full of memory.
Just a spark.
But sometimes that is all it takes to keep the light on.